


The Different Ways to Say "I Love You"

by silentdroplets



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27991194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdroplets/pseuds/silentdroplets
Summary: What is love to the skaters in Russia? This Christmas, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself staying at Yuuri's and Viktor's apartment for the holidays, and they have something planned for each other.or,A tale of agape, domestic love, and found family.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov & Yuri Plisetsky, Katsuki Yuuri & Yuri Plisetsky, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	The Different Ways to Say "I Love You"

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (also found in the end notes):  
> Блин—"blin", pancakes, aka damn  
> милый—"milyy", cutie  
> Черт—"chyort", hell  
> え—?—"Eh?", an exclamation  
> С днем рождения, 誕生日おめでとう!—Russian and Japanese versions of "Happy birthday!"  
> Спаси́бо, милый—"spasibo, milyy", thank you, cutie  
> Виктор—Viktor in Cyrillic
> 
> (credits go to my boyfriend for the translations of Russian text!)

“Are you sure that’s all you need?”  
  
“Yes. _God,_ you’re such a nag.” Yuri slings a small rucksack over his shoulder with athletic ease and glares at Viktor, who is staring over the blanket of dust that used to be Yuri’s room. “Can we just go already? It’s getting late, and I’m not going to let Yakov get in my hair about low energy during practice tomorrow.”

Nikolai clicks his tongue. “Don’t be rude to Viktor, Yurochka. He’s the one giving you a place to stay for the night.”  
  
“No, it’s alright,” Viktor laughs. “It’s his own fault if he forgets to bring spare underwear or something.” He nods at Yuuri, who is standing at the doorway and watching the group anxiously. “Though he can borrow a pair of Yuuri’s if that happens.”  
  
“Ew!” Yuri spits and storms out, brushing past Yuuri, who raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ll just get my toothbrush and we can go already, alright?”  
  
While the contractors rush to remove chunks of brick and flakes of paint from Yuri’s bed and floor, Yuri hugs Nikolai and makes him promise to call him “if you need anything, or if you miss me, or if you make more pirozhki”. Nikolai laughs in response and ruffles his hair—“Just make up your mind about which bed you want from Askona.”

They walk back to Viktor’s and Yuuri’s apartment in silence, with Yuri trooping on just slightly ahead of them. Yuuri tries to break the silence with a “Wow, those renovations really did a number on your room, huh,” but Yuri whips his head back to glare at Yuuri and that shuts him up sufficiently. So they content themselves with a quiet walk back through the busy streets of St. Petersburg, with Yuri leading the way while Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s hand affirmatively.

At their apartment, Yuri slams the spare bedroom door shut the moment they arrive. “Don’t you dare come into this room!” he yells from inside.

“ Блин — This is our house, you ingrate! We’ll come and go as we please,” Viktor shouts back, but doesn’t go near the room for the entire evening. They head into their own bedroom and figure out what to eat for dinner.

It’s midnight, and the three of them have just retired to their own rooms after a few sips of fancy wine and chocolate, at Yuuri’s suggestion. Yuri had initially refused, but gave in after a few nudges from the both of them and soon found himself huddling under a wool blanket on the couch, watching the two older skaters intently as he nibbled on a piece of dark chocolate.

In their bedroom, Viktor and Yuuri slip under the covers and cuddle. “The poor thing. He’s got to stay with us for the whole week until the renovation is done and his bed is set up. Do you think we ought to do something for him?” Yuuri asks.

“Like what?”

“Well… Christmas is just a few days away. Why not we postpone the birthday dinner date and throw a party for Yuri?”  
  
“That’s a good idea,” Viktor says. “I’ve got a few places we can get supplies from at such short notice, and we can get Nikolai to make some pirozhki just for him.” He pulls Yuuri closer and takes a deep breath. “You smell wonderful as always,  милый .”

Yuuri laughs and snuggles in close.

At approximately 1.00am, he is rudely awoken by a crash and a muttered “ Черт !” right outside their bedroom door. He glances over at Viktor—he is sprawled over the other side of the bed, still snoring lightly and blissfully unaware of the ruckus. “If I die to a home robbery, just know I love you,” he whispers to Viktor and kisses his ear. Viktor stops snoring to giggle sleepily and roll over, taking the rest of the blankets with him. Yuuri rubs his eyes, gets off the bed and shuffles over to crack the door open an inch.

Beside a toppled end table, Yuri is frantically gathering scattered magazines and haphazardly stacking them up together. He startles when he notices Yuuri peeking through the door.

“What do you want, katsudon?” he hisses.

“I should be asking you that.” Yuuri bends down to pick up the rest of the magazines and straighten the table. “What are you doing up so late?”  
  
“I’m going out.” Yuri nods at the rucksack over his shoulder, noticeably smaller and less stuffed with clothes and toiletries.

“At this hour? Where are you going?”  
  
“Crazy.” He sniffs and hesitates, before grinning. “Wanna come?”

So that is how Yuuri finds himself walking down unfamiliar pavements—he can hardly see his feet under the night’s sweeping shroud. Yet Yuri is briskly trekking through alleys and shortcuts, not even giving a second glance to the cats whose eyes gleam curiously at the two of them. They pass by a few shops that Yuuri recognises for a second, before entering another path of a completely foreign world. His breathing quickens and his neck prickles with cold sweat. He doesn’t like this.

“Hey, where exactly are we going?” he calls to Yuri.

“Just follow me,” comes the terse reply. After a brief silence: “You wouldn’t know where it is even if I told you, anyway. Just trust me.” He slows down to match Yuuri’s pace for a moment and pulls back his jacket, revealing a gleam of silver for just a split second.

“Knife. In case you think we’re going to die.”

For some reason (or maybe it’s the wine), Yuuri’s heart calms a little with the statement. Yuri hides the blade back in his pocket and strides back on track.

They end up at the back door of their usual skating rink.  
  
“Hey, Yurio… What are we doing here?”

Yuri rolls his eyes and to Yuuri’s absolute horror, leaps up to grab on and hang from a pipe. “I’ve seen you do all those fancy stretches, so I’m assuming you’re flexible enough to keep up.” He swings to gain momentum and pulls himself up, navigating the sturdy water pipes to reach a small hole in the side of the building. Sure, Yuuri can keep up, but does he want to?

He decides, against his better judgement, to just do it.

After strategically-placed footing and aerobics only abs and muscles from years of figure skating can manage, he comes face to face with the tiny hole that Yuri had squeezed through. “I’m too old for this,” he mumbles to himself and gingerly fits one foot into the opening.

“What the hell are you doing, pork chop?” comes Yuri’s voice from within. Yuuri feels his foot being shoved out of the way and a makeshift door he doesn’t notice until now opens for him. He peers in and there stands Yuri, his phone torchlight illuminating the little space.

When he is in with the door firmly shut behind him, he takes a moment to admire his surroundings while Yuri fumbles impatiently with his rucksack. They are in a small crawlspace, an attic-like area that sits above the vents and overlooks the rest of the rink through a small barrier. Now, the streetlight outside glitters in the rough ice below them.  
  
“It’s pretty."  
  
“What.”

“The lights.” Yuuri points and Yuri snorts.

“I have a box of literal daggers and you’re impressed by the goddamn _lights?_ ”

Yuuri looks back, and indeed, there lies a container of gleaming blades. Yuri picks one up and inspects it against the phone light. He takes aim, squinting, and throws it (with horrifying accuracy)at a poster of what Yuuri makes out to be Jean-Jacques Leroy. There are already blades studded across the poster, with a dagger sticking straight in JJ’s nose.

Disturbed, he turns away from the poster and gasps at what he sees: posters of Viktor Nikiforov and him— _him!_ —covering the walls of the attic. “Wh-what is all this?”  
  
Yuri looks up and sucks in a breath. “I just—well, Mila gives me posters of every skater she comes across and she just happens to know what would annoy me the most. That means you guys.”  
  
“So you pasted all of them, even the limited edition Christmas and Olympics versions, here?”

Yuuri glances back in time to see Yuri’s red ear tips against the glare of the phone flashlight. “Alright, whatever, that’s enough,” Yuri hisses, pushing the box of daggers away and pulling up his rucksack. “I brought you here because I figured I could use your help with this thing, not to gawk at your stupid posters.”

He unzips the bag and produces a brown mass of felt. Yuuri instantly recognises the shape.

“Is that a felt plush Makkachin?”  
  
Yuri sucks in another breath. “Yes.”  
  
“You’ve learnt how to sew? And made a toy?”  
  
“ _Yes._ ”  
  
“It’s adorable.” Yuuri picks up the felt dog from Yuri’s hands with trembling fingers and caresses its head, looking up to meet Yuri’s eyes. “What is it for?”  
  
“Viktor’s birthday present.”  
  
A small smile begins to creep up on Yuuri’s face. “That’s so sweet of y-“  
  
“Just shut up about it,” Yuri snaps, but immediately stops and covers his mouth when he sees Yuuri instinctively recoil. He sighs defeatedly. “Look, I just want somewhere private to make people presents and to pretend I can actually stab JJ in the eyes. Don’t make fun of me for that.”  
  
“Why would I? This is so nice of you.” Yuuri returns the dog to Yuri’s hands. “Thank you for thinking of Viktor, Yurio.”  
  
Yuri flinches at the nickname and opens his mouth to rebut, but shakes his head and looks away.

“A-Anyway,” he says, pulling out more felt and a sewing kit, “I got more materials and thread from Grandpa. He says I can do whatever I want with it, so I was thinking if I should make a family of dogs instead of just Makkachin.”

“Do you have more stuffing?”  
  
“Oh.” Yuri shrugs. “I just took cotton squares from the medicine cabinet and tore them up. Does that count?”  
  
“Well, actually, I have some to share with you.” The younger skater looks up in surprise at this revelation. “I have spare stuffing to repair pillows or plushies when Makkachin inevitably chews them up. When would you need it by? I can give some to you.”  


Yuri nods and Yuuri swears by Chihoko that a hint of a smile did appear on his face. “Tomorrow would be good. I need to sneak away to sew, though, so can you help me distract Viktor with some disgusting make-out session or whatever it is that you guys do while I head out?”

—

Yuuri also has his own work cut out for him. With Yuri’s plan in action, however, things seemed to be a bit easier to manage.

In the days leading up to Christmas, he’s had to separate both of them and Yuri to get both Viktor’s present and the Christmas party going. While Yuri had stolen away from the rink promptly after ten renditions of his free skate programme, Viktor and Yuuri had taken their time to cool down and sneak quick pecks on the lips while no one was watching, grateful for the absence of a screaming teenager “yuck”ing down their necks. Yuuri wishes silently, through a slow cool-down pair skate, that this could continue for the remainder of their years at the rink.

The night before the party, the both of them excuse themselves early from the group party that Mila had thrown for all the Russian skaters at her apartment. Georgi winks at Viktor—“have a fun night!”—and Yuuri notices Yuri watching them leave. He makes a face and mimes gagging before Mila slaps him on the back and he proceeds to almost throw up the glass of wine he’d been drinking before. Yuuri can only snort in response.

In the cold, Viktor finds Yuuri’s hand and brings it up to his lips to kiss it. “I love you.”

“You’re so mushy.”

As they walk down the pavement, Viktor checks his phone and frowns. “Can’t believe we let it get this late,” he mutters.  
  
“Is there still time to get the stuff for tomorrow?”  
  
“You bet.”  
  
They turn into an Azbuka Vkusa and grab a cart. The place is virtually empty as they begin their walk down the aisles.

“So what’s on the list?”  
  
Viktor pulls out his phone and shows Yuuri. “We can get the meat tomorrow when they stock fresh cuts, so we can get dry goods and party things first.”

After searching for the flour for pelmeni, Viktor yawns. “This is getting boring.”  
  
“It’s grocery shopping. What do you expect?”

“Fun.” Yuuri spots a twinkle in his eyes. “Treat this as a late-night cardio workout.”

He hops into the cart and turns around to grin at Yuuri. “ え — ?” Yuuri exclaims as Viktor shifts around to get a comfortable spot. “You want me to push you around in this thing? What if someone comes around and catches us?”  
  
“Yuuuuuuri! Won’t you do this for your beloved?”

Yuuri can only nod in defeat and he starts pushing the cart down the aisle.

It turns out to be much more exhilarating than he’d expected. At 12.30 am, not many really care about shenanigans as long as none of the products breaks or no one gets hurt, so they whizz down the aisles at breakneck speed as Viktor squeals and Yuuri’s smiling harder than he’d ever had. Screw the ski trip he’d had with his family at 12 or the quadruple Flip he’d performed at the Grand Prix— _this_ is what life is about.

They stick out their arms to grab random packets and bottles of drinks as they hurtle on, sweeping sodas and chips into the cart and showering Viktor with junk food along the way. When a staff member who doesn’t recognise them step out to tell them to stop, they barely notice and only tear past him, giggling maniacally.

“Hey, Yuuri,” Viktor manages to say amidst childish laughter, “I really meant it when I said I love you. I’ll say it to you once more—I love you!”

Heart racing and sweat prickling his forehead, Yuuri leans down and kisses Viktor fully on the lips. “I love you too,” he whispers, before they crash into a neatly-stacked pile of chicken stock.

Not wanting to face the cashier’s judgemental stare, Viktor bags the groceries himself at the self-checkout while Yuuri apologises profusely to the poor staff member who has to mop up the mess. The whole store smells of chicken—this makes his stomach rumble, and the guy hears this. He looks up and glares at Yuuri.

“Please get out,” he growls.

They exit the store with their bags in tow. “Hey, Viktor, you paid for the damages, right?”  
  
“Of course I did.”

They stare at each other and burst into laughter.

“I told you we’d get scolded!” Yuuri chokes out.

“Only _you_ got scolded!”

Soaked in chicken soup, they return to their apartment and are greeted with Yuri’s “what the _actual_ hell?”

—

On Christmas day, Yuuri kisses Viktor awake. “С днем рождения, 誕生日おめでとう!”

“ Спаси́бо ,  милый .”

They stay in bed for a while more, kissing sleepily.

When they eventually emerge from the bedroom, they find Yuri waiting for them in the living room with a scowl on his face. “Heard all of your stupid moans in there,” he tells them, much to Yuuri’s embarrassment and Viktor’s amusement.

Viktor catches sight of the package with a tag with “ Виктор ” written on it on the table. The wrapping is done haphazardly and tape is sticking out at unsavoury places, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling softly as he picks it up and turns it around to admire the present.

“This is for me?”

Yuri looks away, the tips of his ears beginning to redden. “Yeah.”  
  
Viktor picks apart the paper slowly, only using a pair of scissors for the areas taped thrice for security, and a family of felt dog plushies fall into his hands. He tears up.

“Oh, Yurio! You made these just for me?” he breathes, stroking the soft felt. “These are amazing.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”  
  
Viktor beckons to Makkachin to come over and shows her the tiny felt replica of her. “Yurio made this!” he repeats to her, to which she responds with a wagging tail.

Yuri stands up, picking up the wrapping paper to throw away. “Well, С днем рождения, you old geezer.”

For the rest of the day, Yuri heads out to spend the afternoon with Otabek, who is visiting for Christmas. This gives Viktor and Yuuri more than enough time to set up the party—they run out to pick up fresh meat and produce, returning home to bake, stew and fry enough food to feed the whole skating team in Russia.

“Say, Yuuri,” Viktor calls to Yuuri from the other side of the kitchen, “I never expected Yurio to give me something this cute for my birthday. He’s only ever given me cheap bottles of shampoo in the past. What do you think happened?”  
  
Not looking up from the dough under his hands, Yuuri smiles to himself. “He probably grew up,” is all he says.

“He’s just sixteen or something! An angry tiger-ey teen!”  


“Tigers have soft fur too.”

Viktor muses for a bit. “Do you think he’s got a crush on me?”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri laments jokingly, “I’ve got competition.”  
  
“Like he can ever hold a candle to my truly kind and amazing Katsuki Yuuri!”

He laughs and blows a pinch of flour at Viktor.

—

“It’s cool if I bring Otabek over to show him stuff, right?”  
  
Yuri is standing in the doorway with Otabek next to him. Yuuri smiles at the newcomer. “Sure,” he tells Yuri as they take off their shoes and coats, “we’ve got too much food for just the three of us anyway.”  
  
Yuri squints at him suspiciously. “What do you mean, _too much food?_ ”

In the kitchen, the smoke alarm blares and Viktor’s screaming rings across the apartment.

“Hey, I’m not eating burnt food if I can help it. Come on, Otabek, let’s go grab _edible_ dinner.”  
  
“Wait.” Otabek places a hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “Don’t go. They look like they’ve got something planned for you.”  
  
“That’s… that’s true,” Yuuri says, scratching the back of his neck.

The two younger skaters marvel at the decorations and food spread across the dining table. “Is this what you two idiots have been doing the entire afternoon?” Yuri asks. “Preparing this entire thing?”

“Don’t forget your grandpa too!” Nikolai emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands down on an apron.

“He made the katsudon pirozhki you like so much,” Yuuri tells him, but is interrupted by Yuri’s excited shout:  
  
“Grandpa! You never told me you were coming!” He leaps into Nikolai’s arms and squeezes him tight, and Nikolai reciprocates the embrace.

“Grandpa, this is Otabek, my good friend.” Otabek nods politely and the two of them shake hands.

“Thank you for taking care of my grandson, Otabek. You see, Yurochka doesn’t really have many friends besides his skating team and Vitya and Yuuri, so it’s nice to know he’s doing well outside Russia as well.”  
  
“Grandpa— I _do_ have friends—“

“Who wants a veal casserole?” Viktor shouts as he walks out with a steaming hot pan. He notices Otabek and grins. “Well, who’s this! Welcome to the party, Otabek!”

Otabek nods politely again. “Thank you for having me.”  


They sit around the dining table and Yuuri fills everyone’s glasses with homemade mulled wine, taking care to fill only half of his own. At this point, Viktor raises his glass and taps it with a spoon. Everyone looks up at him.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us in this festive little party,” he begins, “especially with Christmas also being my birthday. It’s nice to finally spend it with people I can truly call family, and not mope around at home eating sweet cereal out of the box with Makkachin.”

The table titters.

“Anyway, I’d just like to make a toast to Yuri Plisetsky.” Yuri stops laughing and his jaw drops, frowning.

“Wait, what—“  
  
“He’s a tiny brat and a ferocious little piece of shit, as we all know him to be. But I think we can all appreciate the fact that he’s grown, he’s gotten wiser. And it feels like I’m looking at the younger me all over again, you know?”  
  
“I don’t!” Yuri is still gaping at Viktor, but no longer is he scowling.

“I’m just glad that unlike the past me, he’s got true friends and family to call home. And I’m proud of him for finding that for himself.”

Everyone looks over at Yuri expectantly. He’s fully blushing now, up to the tips of his ears, staring intently at the casserole in the middle of the table.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, Yurio,” Yuuri says to him quietly, but Yuri shakes his head and raises his glass.

“Well… I… guess that’s true. You guys are important to me, that’s all. I guess.”  
  
The table erupts in cheer.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Блин—"blin", pancakes, aka damn  
> милый—"milyy", cutie  
> Черт—"chyort", hell  
> え—?—"Eh?", an exclamation  
> С днем рождения, 誕生日おめでとう!—Russian and Japanese versions of "Happy birthday!"  
> Спаси́бо, милый—"spasibo, milyy", thank you, cutie  
> Виктор—Viktor in Cyrillic
> 
> Damn, haven't been writing fanfic for 2 years! I'm back from the dead (no, actually, just the rigour of junior college and national exams and getting into a relationship in general), and I'm proud to present an early Christmas/birthday present to Viktor Nikiforov and you guys who hopefully still remember I exist..! Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading—I'm eternally grateful for your presence. Comments greatly appreciated!


End file.
